Let it Hurt
by madchilla
Summary: I usually can't stand the dark, not knowing what lies in it—not knowing what doesn't. It scares me to be in the obscurity. But not tonight. No, tonight, the dark has nothing on me, for I fear myself even more. *Rated M for self harm and attempted suicide*


**Warnings: **Mentions of rape, self harm, attempted suicide.

Please don't read if any of these are triggering.

Hell this was written due to a trigger.

* * *

It's pitch black in my room. I can't see a single thing. The only glimpse of light is the moon peeking through my window. I usually can't stand the dark, not knowing what lies in it—not knowing what doesn't. It scares me to be in the obscurity.

But not tonight. No, tonight, the dark has nothing on me, for I fear myself even more. Claude put me to bed hours ago, but I haven't been able to fall asleep. I haven't been able to fall asleep for a long time. These thoughts...these thoughts never end.

I can never fall asleep with these thoughts racing through my head. It's impossible to get any rest when I'm constantly being nagged and ridiculed by them. They think I don't understand them. They think I'm a worthless, uneducated piece of scum—a dunce that isn't capable of interpreting.

And maybe they're right.

They never shut up. They never leave me alone. I'm constantly reminded about what I am and what I've done. It's as if they don't realize that I'm _fully_ aware of it. They tell me how insignificant I am—how worthless I am.

And they are right.

I'm worthless here. I've lost all I've ever cared about. I've lost all that's ever cared about me. I have no place, here in this world. Sometimes I feel lost...alone...nonexistent. There are times when I need to prove to myself that I am here.

I'm reminded every time I look into a mirror. No one else can see it, but I can. I see what I am. I feel it. Even now, I can trace the raised lines on my thighs, reminding me how pathetically worthless I am.

Claude does nothing about it even though he notices. One time in the morning, I woke up and all the cuts were cleaned and bandaged. I know Claude doesn't care, though. It's just another job for him to do to keep his meal safe.

Why does he even bother on a wretched soul like mine?

My soul is tarnished—defiled by that abominable creature, so revolting it doesn't even deserve the title, 'man'.

I know what I am and I know what I did. I allowed him to deflower me. It's no wonder why Claude will never love me. I'm disgusting. All I am is rubbish that would be thrown out into the street on a rainy day.

Worthless.

Useless.

Dirty.

Impure.

Obscene.

Foul.

Filthy.

Vile.

The list goes on.

I don't deserve what little attention I get from Claude, and yet, I crave for it. I need it so badly to the point that I _lust_ for it.

But that's all I'm ever good for, is it not?

I give up on sleeping, knowing that the delicious slumber will not engulf me and release me of these thoughts. I push the blankets off of me and toward the end of my bed before I get up and stagger to the bathroom. Multiple candles in the room are lit, illuminating the large room scarcely. In the mirror, I can barely make out my reflection due to the darkness; however, I can clearly see my eyes.

Those rotten eyes. Those corrupt eyes that have seen too much indecency—lewdness.

It's repulsive. I'm repulsive.

I crouch down in front of a cabinet, making my nightshirt ride up even higher on my thighs. I reach for a towel I know Claude will never use and carefully unfold it. Inside is my truest friend: the one I can pour myself out to—the one that will never judge me.

The cabinet is closed and the pristine razor is light in my hand. I'm sitting on the cool floor, my back resting against the cabinets with my knees pulled up to my chest. My stringy hair is falling into my eyes, gradually dampening. When did I start crying?

I stretch my legs in front of me, hissing at the slight sting of previous wounds straining. I never think when I do this anymore. I bring the razor up to the middle of my thigh, not even slightly hesitating before digging it into my flesh, dragging to make a nice cut. I gasp at the burn accompanying the blood bubbling from the incision.

Why do I do this to myself?

I wipe the blood from the razor onto my nightshirt, staining it with my impurity. I bring it back to my leg, a little below the first line and repeat, this time a little deeper. I actually have to stifle the small cry that crawled from my throat. I can't have Claude see me like this—the utterly useless, good-for-nothing, cheap little boy that I am.

I am useless. I am good-for-nothing. _I am cheap._

Why did it have to be Luka to die? Why couldn't it have been me? Surely he wouldn't have gotten himself into this mess I have.

A deal with a demon. This helpless want for revenge that's impossible for me to forget.

What if I were to join myself with Luka? I can easily let this razor slip across my wrist. Hell, I could rip it across my throat if I wanted to.

But I don't.

I dig the blade into my leg as far as I can without screaming. I rip it across my thigh, the sicking sound of flesh tearing fills my ears. The gash is huge...the deepest, largest cut I've ever made. The blood is pooling, dripping down my leg and staining the porcelain floor.

Oh God, there's so much.

My mind is blank. I feel my hand with the razor gradually rising, slowly moving to hover over my other wrist. I can't control it. I scream when the blade glides across the tender skin, digging in deep. "Claude!" I shriek. My tongue burns from the contract seal. Nauseating crimson paints my fair skin, blemishing what little pureness was there.

The world around me is fading. I vaguely notice Claude calmly entering the bathroom with that collected behavior he embodied. I faintly hear the bathtub filling with water before my nightshirt is stripped from my body.

I feel like I'm flying when Claude lifts me from the floor and into the tub.

I'm sick of this feeling. I'm sick of feeling unwanted and unworthy. I loathe it. I hate feeling like a burden, like worthless child.

Claude, please...please just take my soul—my detestable, shameful soul.

Forget the contract.

I don't deserve you or what you do for me. I don't deserve this life or any life.

Take what you want from me. I don't even care. Just promise me one thing.

Let it hurt.

* * *

_A/N: I need a hug_

_Strongly inspired by Lily-Draws' amazing piece of art, "Beneath the Booty Shorts". Link is on my profile_


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